


One More Minute

by twigglettz



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cuddles, M/M, Spoilers, There is not enough Tormund and that makes me sad, ale, s07e01, y u no listen to Jon everyone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twigglettz/pseuds/twigglettz
Summary: He knew that Jon was their best bet to stop the White Walkers, believed in him even when Jon didn't believe in himself.





	One More Minute

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alitneroon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alitneroon/gifts).



“I'm sorry.” The words were quiet, almost a whisper, and Jon wasn't sure Tormund had heard him. He let his back press against the wooden door behind him, almost afraid to cross the space between him and the larger man. The meeting had gone wrong earlier, had almost turned into a coup thanks to Sansa's interference, and he was exhausted from trying to save everyone from the White Walkers, never mind having to save them from themselves now. There was no time for politics, no time for negotiations and arguments and discussions over an overflowing goblet of wine. They needed men, a plan, and then they needed to act. Every day they spent bickering about honour and loyalty was a day wasted, were lives wasted when it came to the final battle. 

Jon opened his mouth to repeat himself, but Tormund turned to face him, chair creaking from the shift. He looked sombre, more serious than Jon had ever seen him, and his fingers itched to run them across Tormund's face, smooth his beard down and tangle them in his hair, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

“I can't... we can't...” Jon was looking everywhere except at the older man, stuttering out the start of an explanation that he couldn't get out, hands wringing in front of him. He wanted to tell Tormund the truth, but it sounded so harsh in his head, ugly and uncaring, and Jon didn't want him to misunderstand. He had demanded that Tormund and his people leave Castle Black, had ordered him to be the first in line to the slaughter. There was no other choice. They were the strongest, the best trained, and most importantly, they knew how to follow their leaders. The Northern families were all squabbling between themselves like children and it took all of Jon's effort just to keep them in line. The Wildlings listened to Tormund, followed his every instruction, and they needed that on the front line. 

Jon felt like everyone had questioned him in the meeting, had judged his ability to lead. He'd died for the North, died for the fight ahead. How could anyone question his loyalty? But he didn't even need to ask that of Tormund. He'd offered before he had the chance. No disputes, no clarifications. At the time, Jon's heart had dropped; if there was any order he'd wanted to be challenged, it was that one. He had expected him to agree, he supposed, but Tormund's unwavering trust in him always left him breathless.

“I understand, Jon.” Of course he did. He'd seen the chaos at Hardholme, had seen what happens when there's no plan. He knew that Jon was their best bet to stop the White Walkers, believed in him even when Jon didn't believe in himself. Loved him, even when Jon felt unworthy. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back tears. In front of Tormund, he wasn't the King in the North, wasn't a Lord Commander, wasn't the eldest living son of Ned Stark, and he didn't have to pretend the façade of strength was real. 

Jon heard the scrape of the chair from the other side of the room, heard Tormund's heavy footsteps closing in towards him, and let his body relax when his lover wrapped his arms around him. Jon brought his hands up to fist in the furs Tormund was still wearing, breathing in the scent of fire and dirt still lingering on the larger man's skin. It smelt like home far more than the empty hallways of Winterfell did, and Jon tried to etch it into his memory whilst Tormund was still here.

“I have ale.” Jon let out a sharp laugh at the statement, muffled by Tormund's chest, and pulled back to grin up at him. They'd argued relentlessly one night back at Castle Black about what was better: ale, wine or whatever the fuck it was that Tormund swore by. Jon had been squarely on the side of ale, and he was pleasantly surprised that Tormund had even remembered. He pushed himself up on the tips of his toes, and kissed Tormund hard, mumbling a thanks against his lips. 

“If I'm a member of the Night's Watch now, I might as well drink like a crow,” Tormund huffed, voice laced with annoyance, but his eyes were warm, and he gestured to the large barrel in the corner of the room. Jon didn't want to let go, didn't want Tormund to back away, but after the day he'd had, he really needed a drink. 

“One more minute,” Jon whispered, burying his face back into the furs across Tormund's chest, and he felt the rumbling of a laugh more than he heard it. Tormund just wrapped his arms tighter around Jon's shoulders and stepped back, pulling the younger man with him. He guided him to their bed, before manoeuvring them down into a sitting position. Jon was still clutching onto him, and Tormund brought his hand up to untie Jon's hair, fingers tangling in the curls. Jon hummed in appreciation underneath him, and Tormund couldn't help but smile down at the man pressed against his side. 

“Make it two.”


End file.
